March 14, 2013
A brief paean to my roommate: First, I have one. I am kinda mum about it because it’s ever so slightly taboo for a 35 year old to have a goddamn roommate, but let me claim her — I have a roommate. (Why do we use the term “roommate” interchangeably with “housemate”? I surely do not share a room with her, but it hasnt even crossed your mind that I might, even though I have used that word.)
Now, the song. She is a 27 year old straight, white debutante from a certain part of the state who is now employed as a librarian by a certain mansion. She sports a tattoo from the Moosewood Cookbook and has Cunt by Inga Muscio on her shelf. She is relatively quick to mention that she is only a demi-deb, that her parents didnt have as much money as the other debs, but not necessarily because she is uncomfortable acknowledging that she is a product of a strange and fascinating sub-culture defined by class, money and status, but because it is accurate. “My mother wanted to be an artist and my father made a bad real estate deal in the 80′s”.
She is dead pan and germ-phobic. She has fantastic dishes. She leaves the house everyday in calf-length skirts and fashionable boots after she making her coffee in a press. Sometimes, she even wears her hair in a bun. She balances her checkbook. The second time we hung out, she said that her annual car tax really blew her budget and she made an exploding noise while flinging her fingers from the clenched fists of both hands. I said, “Is that the sound of your budget exploding?” and she said, “No that was the sound of me blowing my brains out, but then that seemed so morbid,” indicating that she was on the the way to making little finger guns with her fists, but thought better of it.
I have a roommate, not so much because I can’t afford the house, but because I was scared to make such a big financial leap alone — from 250 dollars a month in rent to 1100. Also, she was exiting a 5 year relationship and needed a place to stay. The main reason she is my roommate, though, is that when we first met, I could tell that she had to force herself to smile and that’s my kind of girl.
April 27, 2012
I want to write posts about making friends and my relationship with my dog, but nothing I write comes out right. In the meantime, I should write about whether or not I’m pregnant, and, if I’m not pregnant, what the plan is for getting pregnant, but I have no desire to even write about that, much less write about it poorly.
How about this: Last night, I had a friend date with a 37 year old who knows Annie Sprinkle and has two lip rings, my dog is currently perched in a squashed position on my chair with me in it; butthole on my shoulder, and I am not pregnant. I plan to try again on May 3rd, 4th and 5th.
April 16, 2012
I am in the two week wait, on cycle day 21. I ended up inseminating three times, with the last insemination happening a full 48 hours before I got a positive on the OPK. (I will not bore you with the vagaries of the female cycle as it is syncing up with another female cycle.) I know I’m not totally out of the running, but I had kinda let this cycle go emotionally . . . until yesterday when I had stronger than average cramps, a lump in my throat and realized I’ve had, like, three insane dreams this week. That’s right friends, I am torturing you with more (I’m not really experiencing) early pregnancy symptoms. Sorry.
In other news, I am going to a wedding on Thursday in Orange County. Somehow, during my early adulthood, I managed to make friends with someone from Orange County. It’s funny how that happens, isnt it? I am having a few twinges of ugly feelings. I don’t even have the time to figure out what they might be called. This is the second wedding I’ve been to since Lauren left. I didnt have any problems at the first wedding, I think, because I was still in shock. It was all so new, someone even said to me, “Where’s Lauren?”
As far as the good feelings, though, I appreciate in a new way what a profound accomplishment it is to even darken marriage’s doorstep holding a shared vision for your future with another person. I’m relieved to spend time in the company of people with whom I share a deep love. I’m excited to enjoy a few luxuries — good food, beautiful hotel. I mean, there’s nothing like a room full of well-nourished, well-educated Americans to make you feel like anything is possible, right? I’m curious to visit a new part of the country. I’m grateful to get a break from work. I’m hungry to dress the fuck up and feel beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
Weddings and babies, friends, weddings and babies.
February 16, 2012
My blog friend Aleia, at Liberation Theory, recently asked readers to post a comment to say hello and stuff. The replies were sweet and fun and totally made me feel like a group of awesome people reading her awesome blog, so I am putting out my own mat.
Leave a comment with:
1.) How you found my blog
2.) What you like about it
3.) How you’re feeling about your own blog these days
4.) And a link to another blog you love
October 7, 2011
The other day, I was at the park with Cherry, my dog, and the kid I babysit, Buddy. I had to go pick up some poop and one of the women at the dog park offered to tend to Buddy while I scooped. When she held her arms out telling me to put the baby in them, my heart broke a little. Then, today, I was driving with a friend when an important paper flew onto the floor of my car. She picked it up and put it in a safer place. Again, another hairline fracture.
For the first few months of the year, it was all I could do to breathe and drink water. Then, when I started leaving the house, I remember that if I had something to do, I would check to make sure it was the only thing I was doing that day because ”things to do” were special treats that had to be drawn out over the course of a week like a candy bar hidden in a closet. I wouldnt schedule a hair cut and an oil change on the same day, for example. I had no wife and no friends. I wasnt convinced that eating was worth the trouble. I was a stranger in the middle of a mountain town in the middle of winter. This wasnt an altogether terrible way to live, actually. I got places on time. I was happy when I arrived. I was present while I stayed. I could stay as long as I wanted.
Since July, though, my days have become fuller. For example, I leave the house every day, sometimes more than once. I meet new people every week, sometimes more than one. And I have appointments, sometimes back to back. While I am happy to be living something like a real life again, and to even mean it a little, I’m overwhelmed sometimes. I’m getting re-acquainted with lateness, being unprepared and making mistakes again.
I wonder if I’m still wounded and trying to do too much. Or if I am by nature tender and slow and distractable and shouldnt have more than one thing to do per day regardless of who has or hasnt left me. I wonder if it’s really this hard being single. I wonder if I can really handle the responsibility of living my own life well. I wonder exactly how much stress I am under or how alone I must really feel if such small acts of kindness, such simple gestures, bring me so much relief. Sometimes, I am so touched, I have to hold back tears.
Last night, I had dinner with a new friend from Meeting. We said grace before we ate. She made me lentil soup and offered to be on my birth team. She was as excited and awed and mystified by the idea of me having a baby as I am. She told me a little about what it was like to grow up in Nigeria. She taught me a new word. We talked about marriage and divorce and black people in Asheville. She’s lived in Rockville. Turns out, she went on a blind date with the owner of Tourmobile, a DC tour guide company I have fond memories of working for. Firmly held by the lentils and the presence of a white lady who can talk about blackness without twitching or apologizing, I felt very grateful and didnt even need to cry about it. I’ve decided that this subject, the subject of giving and receiving and needing and wanting help deserves its own tag, what with me thinking about becoming a single mother and all, what with me treating “help” like a four letter word for the past 33 years and all.